


“Thoughts of You”

by AhmedA01



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, British Singers RPF, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhmedA01/pseuds/AhmedA01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul visits Strawberry Field in New York City.<i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	“Thoughts of You”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.

_December 8, 2001_

The air was cold. So bloody cold. Little gusts of smog-tinged air moving about the various passerby on the crowded streets, occasionally inciting an old tattered newspaper or crushed aluminum can to flight. The sky remained dark, the clouds blocking the tired sun’s rays, a job usually performed halfheartedly by the larger than life skyscrapers. There was a severe chill in the air, the collective breath of millions of New Yorkers hovering above the city like a second atmosphere.

The people of the city were all bundled up in their thick jackets and sweaters, gloved hands crammed into deep pockets or holding steaming Styrofoam cups of hot coffee walked at a hurried pace, all eager to get indoors. Speech was at a minimum, almost as if fragile vocal chords had been frozen through and though. Days like these are frequent occurrences in New York City, yet, that did not make them any easier to handle.

Among the pedestrians walked one lone figure, encased in a heavy knee-length black coat, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, almost as if he was trying to hide in plain view. He walked in a straight line; his eyes never leaving the path before him as his legs stomped the residual snow underneath his feet into an even dirtier slush. The man held a book by his side, a slim hardcover volume swinging in time to the movement of his legs. No one bothered to pay any attention to this rather inconspicuous man, but if they had, they would have surely been surprised to see Paul McCartney walking amidst them. However, the thing that most people would have been struck by would be the poorly concealed sadness etched so prominently on his face, a look that told of love and friendship lost.

Hazel eyes soon fell shut for the briefest second as Paul came upon his destination, an impressive neo-gothic building in the heart of New York City. Age had done nothing to diminish the beauty of the old-fashioned building, maturity having given it an older statesman feel, the dignified senior citizen surrounded by the infantile skyscrapers.

A number of colourful figures kneeled beside the apartment building, hands shaking, not from cold but from sadness, as they left small bouquets of flowers and scraps of paper covered in heartfelt ramblings written in messy, unreadable scrawl. Paul watched the scene with a sense of detachment, his hands absently caressing the textured cover of the book he still held. He stood of to the side, partly in fear of being recognized and partly in order to observe the proceedings around him.

The mourners tried to light candles, yet with every strike of the match a gust of wind extinguished the flame. Some had lit sticks of incense, the pungent aroma becoming one with the frigid breeze. Soon, the few moved on, only to be replaced by a new batch of mourners, and so, Paul continued to stand apart from it all.

After a while, the people had stopped coming, for nightfall was on the horizon, the imminent darkness driving them indoors, something that the cold had not been able to accomplish. Paul was now free to move forward, his eyes fixated on a single picture placed among the many others. A picture of a man peering knowingly from behind round granny glasses, his chin length hair parted right down the middle. Slowly and determinedly, Paul took off his hat, his hand quickly coming up to his head to keep the graying hair from being whipped around his gracefully aging face. Gently, he lowered himself before the shrine, placing his cap and his book on the ground, as he kneeled on the icy cement. With a shuddering sigh, he closed his eyes again, before training the slightly red eyes on the picture before him again.

“Well, John,” Paul began shakily, “It’s been twenty-one years. Twenty-one long fucking years, and yet after all this time, I still have not been able to put you completely out of my mind. Then again, you have always been one to make a lasting impression, haven’t you, Lennon? I know I say this every year, but life just hasn’t been the same without you.” Lowering his head, Paul quickly rubbed his tired face before continuing. “Anyway, George passed away recently,” he said, shaking his head with a rueful smile, “but I’m guessing that you know that already. I wonder if you two are together, wherever you may be, larking about with Brian, Mal, Mo, Linda, Elvis and whomever else you’ve managed not to piss off yet. Although, I have to admit, if you have been able to go twenty-one years and still be on good terms with at least one person wherever you are, I’d be fucking gobsmacked.”

Paul moved his head to the side and looked around his surroundings as if for the first time since he had arrived, before turning his face up to the sky. Suddenly it dawned on him that darkness was approaching quickly, the heavens having changed from the earlier lightened dark, to an almost oppressive one. With his third heavy, trembling sigh of the past fifteen minutes, Paul unconsciously rubbed his face again before looking at the photograph in front of him.

“At any rate, I should get going now. It is getting dark and it is not exactly the safest thing to be out at night in this city, a fact that you undoubtedly know.” And with slightly jerky movements, Paul bent down to pick up his almost forgotten book, his fingers moving along the bent edges, rubbing his thumb against the grain along the textured spine. Gradually, he opened the book to the first page, slipping out a single sheet of plain white paper before closing the book with a snap. Leaning down, he placed the paper among the many that had already been placed there, his illegible scrawl blending in with the others.

Finally Paul straightened up, the hardcover book clutched tightly in his hands again; the old tattered baseball cap long forgotten on the ground below. Quickly brushing himself off, Paul turned his back on the display behind him before walking away at a brisk pace, his words of parting whisked away by the wind, ” Goodbye John. I love you.”

And in Paul McCartney’s wake, an edge of that single sheet of white paper moved sluggishly in the wind, the words, the heartfelt ramblings of a friend to a friend.

_John,_

_I tried to get over you,_   
_I tried to find something new_   
_But all I could ever do_   
_Was fill my time with thoughts of you._

_I tried to go somewhere old._   
_To search for my pot of gold._   
_But all I could ever hold_   
_Inside, my mind, were thoughts of you._

_I hear your music and it’s driving me wild_   
_Familiar rhythms in a different style_   
_I hear your music and it’s driving me wild_   
_Again._

_Don’t want to let you take me down_   
_Don’t want to get hurt a second time around_   
_Don’t want to walk down that lonely road again._   
_Love you._

_I hear your music and it’s driving me wild_   
_Familiar rhythms in a different style_   
_I hear your music and it’s driving me wild again._

_Don’t want to let you take me down_   
_Don’t want to get hurt a second time around_   
_Don’t want to walk down that lonely road again._

_Don’t want to let you take me down_   
_Don’t want to get hurt a second time around_   
_Don’t want to walk down that lonely road again._   
_I don’t want to walk down that lonely road._

_Forever yours,  
“Macca”_


End file.
